Streeter Box Set

by Michael Stone

  “Frank, I want you to do me a favor.”

  “Where are you?”

  “I’m heading down twenty-five,” Streeter said. “I was up in Cheyenne talking to a few people, and I think it was Mitch Bosco who set up that card-game robbery at Lucci’s.”

  “Why would he do that?”

  “I have no idea, but it seems to me that something’s going on here that we don’t know about. Look, Frank, get ahold of old man Lucci. Fast. If he’s not at home, call his restaurants. Have him come down to the church right away. If Bosco’s freelancing, I’m thinking that he could still come after Al.”

  Frank considered that for a moment. “Why would he? I thought Al told you that Disanto said they don’t want to buy him out anymore.”

  “That’s what he said, but Bosco’s the one who has me worried now. Maybe I’m just being paranoid, but I want to talk to Al about it.”

  “Better safe than sorry, huh? How far away are you?”

  “I’ll be home in about forty-five minutes.”

  When Streeter got back to town, he went right to the church. He headed for Frank’s office, where he found the bondsman on the phone. Al Lucci was not there. Frank hung up soon after his partner arrived.

  “I struck out with your Mr. Lucci,” he said. “There was no answer at his house or his restaurants. I talked to someone at his catering shop and they had no idea where he is.”

  Streeter stood in front of the desk considering that. “Did you leave messages everywhere?”

  Frank nodded. “Told them to have him head over here pronto. Or at least call. What do you think Bosco’s up to?”

  “Probably nothing, but I’ll feel better if I know where Al is, not to mention finding out where Mitch Bosco is, too.” He paused. “Keep after Al’s numbers. Even the catering place. Call me on the cell phone if you hear anything. I’m going over to Bosco’s place to see if he’s home. I have no idea why he would have arranged that robbery, but I’d sure like to ask him about it.”

  “You’re going to tell him you know?” Frank frowned. “That doesn’t sound very smart. Remember, this is the same guy that already threw some shots at your car.”

  “Which means I’m probably not on his Christmas-card list as it is. What else can he do?”

  With that, Streeter turned and headed for the door. He got back into his Buick and drove to Mitch’s apartment building. The Volvo station wagon was not in the lot or on the street, but the bounty hunter rang Mitch’s apartment number anyhow. Rang it seven times, in fact, and still got no response. Frank hadn’t called, so Streeter took a quick spin over to Lucci’s house. No one was home. Then he decided to run past both of Alphonse’s restaurants to see if he was at either. If that failed, Streeter figured he’d go home and wait to hear from him.

  THIRTY-TWO

  As he ate his breakfast that morning, Mitch was absolutely convinced that the last day of Al Lucci’s life would be the pivotal day in the rest of his own. His legal troubles would end with the arrest of Ted Kostas and, at about the same time, he would be entering corporate America by killing the Cheese Man. True, when Mitch started his “Prosperity Journal” he’d had no intention of taking a straight job. Not to mention that he had never seriously considered murder before, either. But how was he to know that an opportunity like the one Niles presented would pop up? A man would have to be a damned fool to turn his back on something like that, and Mrs. Bosco sure didn’t raise any idiots. When he finished eating, he pulled out his journal and made a quick entry over the last of his coffee and a cigarette.

  “As I recall,” he began, “one of the Seven Habits of Highly Effective People is that you constantly re-evaluate your progress so that you can make the appropriate adjustments. Something like that. So today is adjustment day. I never intended to take an actual job, but this is a move that just makes too much sense not to do. Besides, I have a feeling that working for Niles and his company shouldn’t be that much different than what I’ve been doing all along. This development hustle sounds like robbery with retirement benefits, is all. About the only real change is that I’ll get to wear a suit. Seventy thousand a year for starters, plus sick pay and whatnot. I have no choice. Not really.”

  He paused and thought about killing Alphonse Lucci. “Taking out the old man is just another adjustment I have to make,” he wrote. “Strictly a one-time deal. A man has to be open to opportunity or he’ll never grow. Besides, if I can’t extend myself this once, how bad do I want success?” With that question, he carefully closed the book.

  After he’d shaved and showered, Mitch slowly dressed himself. Then he checked his nine-millimeter automatic to make sure it was loaded and the safety was on. Not that he planned on shooting Alphonse, but he’d need the small weapon for persuasion purposes. As he put on his coat to leave at exactly eleven-fifteen, the phone rang.

  “Yeah?” he asked curtly into the receiver.

  “Mitch, my boy.” Todd Janek’s voice came at him all cheerful. “How’s it going?” Without waiting for an answer, he continued. “Got one quick question for you, slick.”

  Mitch frowned. “You called to ask me how it’s going?”

  A pause. Then: “That was just rhetorical. Actually, the question is about the buyers our friend Kostas has lined up. I’m with the cars right now and we’re about to head out in a while. I was just wondering if you had any idea when Ted’s buyers are due to show up.”

  “How would I know? Look, slick, I gave you Kostas. That’s our deal. You want to nail those other guys, you do your own homework. But I’ll tell you one thing. You keep nagging Kostas about his buyers and you might as well wear a sign saying you’re out to bust him.” He took a deep breath. “This your first week on the job or what?” Mitch hung up without another word. Idiot cops.

  At ten to twelve, Mitch parked his Volvo three blocks from Al Lucci’s house and headed to the old man’s place on foot. When he got a couple of doors from it, he saw Alphonse walking slowly toward the front door, studying what appeared to be mail in his hands. Alphonse was wearing dark dress slacks, a white shirt, and a red tie. Mitch watched him go into the house and then took in the neighborhood for a moment. All quiet. Not one person was outside. It was overcast but warm, so Mitch unzipped his leather jacket, patted the nine in the side pocket of his coat, and moved toward the door. Once there, he pressed the doorbell and stood off to the side. When the old man opened the inside door, all he could see through the screen was the back of Mitch’s head and jacket.

  “What is it?” Alphonse asked, sounding irritated.

  At that, Mitch spun quickly and grabbed the screen-door handle. He yanked it and entered the house, pushing the confused Alphonse backward as he did. Inside the foyer, Mitch shut the door behind him and pulled the nine from his pocket. He shoved the barrel into Lucci’s face and grabbed the small man by the back of his neck.

  “Shut your mouth and listen,” Mitch said in a low but clear voice.

  “The hell?” was the best Alphonse could come back with at first. He belched in fear and confusion as his mouth dropped open. He recognized the intruder immediately, but it took him a few seconds to put a name to the face. When he did, he asked, “Bosco, right? Why you? Why? Why the hell are you here?”

  Mitch tightened his grip on the old man’s neck. “Because we’re going to go and do some repair work. You and me, right now. If you keep your mouth shut and cooperate, this’ll go a whole lot easier. You understand?” He pushed the gun into Al’s chin lightly.

  Alphonse frowned like he was in great pain. His stomach twitched and he fought, unsuccessfully, to hold back a fart. “What are you talking about here, Bosco?”

  Mitch squeezed the neck again and glanced around the living room. He noticed how neat the place was. How old but well preserved the dark furniture looked. “Don’t worry,” he said as he refocused on Alphonse. “Just do what I say and this’ll go fast and smooth. You have your car keys on you?”

  Alphonse nodded, still frowning deeply. His mouth was
open like it was difficult to breath.

  “Good. You have the keys to your place on North Federal?” He paused to recall the name. “The Garlic Bulb Too?”

  Again the old man nodded.

  “Then we’re off.” He shot Al a wink.

  Mitch walked the Cheese Man through the house and to the garage on the south side of it. When they got to his pale-blue Ford Escort, Mitch ordered Al behind the wheel and he himself eased into the passenger seat. Poor Al was shaking mildly but noticeably by now, and he looked about ready to cry. But he followed Mitch’s instructions without a word. He backed carefully out of the garage and closed the door with the remote, then moved down the driveway and out into the street. Alphonse drove to his second pizza joint—on Federal, near Speer Boulevard—in a heavy silence that was broken only occasionally by Mitch’s telling the old man to keep his eyes on the road. Alphonse couldn’t resist glancing from time to time at the guy next to him with the gun.

  When they stopped in front of the restaurant, Mitch instructed the driver to keep going and pull around into the alley in the rear. Al did as he was told and finally parked next to two overflowing Dumpsters immediately behind a metal door with the word “Bulb” stenciled on it.

  “You got the keys for the back door, right?” Mitch barked when Al had shut off the engine.

  The old man nodded, staring down at the gun in Mitch’s hand. “What are you going to do?” he finally asked in a weak voice.

  “Let’s go inside and I’ll tell you.”

  With that, both men got out of the car and walked the few steps to the rear door. It took Al nearly two minutes to get the right key into the lock and open the door, but Mitch stayed fairly patient. When they had walked inside, Mitch pushed the metal door behind them shut with his left foot. They stood in the narrow kitchen. The lights were out, but a tiny amount of daylight was filtering in unevenly from several windows on the back wall. Mitch squinted as he adjusted to the darkened room. The place smelled like someone had spilled ammonia on a stale pizza.

  “Okay, Mr. Lucci,” Mitch said when he was done looking around. “Here’s the deal. I hate to give you bad news, but you’re dead. There’s no discussion about that. You won’t sell to Disanto, so we figure your daughter will sell to Niles.” He paused. “Niles and me.”

  Alphonse was staring at Mitch’s mouth as he spoke, barely comprehending the words coming out of it. “My daughter,” he offered feebly.

  Mitch nodded. “We know she isn’t anywhere near as stubborn as you are about the whole thing. With you gone, she sells to us.”

  By now Alphonse was getting more centered. “Who’s this us? Freddy Disanto said the development project was done. A wash.”

  “It is as far as he’s concerned. But not as far as the people in Arizona go. It’s still in the hopper.”

  “Then I’ll sell to them.” Going for a business tone, the old man straightened the glasses on his nose and attempted to do the same thing with his shoulders. “I’m not that stubborn that I can’t come to terms with you here, Bosco.”

  “It’s too late for that.” Mitch nodded again. “Me just bringing you here like this is kidnapping. No way we’re going to work with you. There’s no way we can work with you anymore. Not after what I just did.” He glanced at the nine in his right hand.

  “Since when are you part of the Arizona group?”

  “Since don’t worry about it. You don’t need to know about the business end of things.”

  Alphonse glanced off and considered that. When he looked back at Mitch his eyes narrowed. “So you shoot me right here and now and you don’t think that’s not going to raise a few questions? Right here in my own kitchen. Sheri might be easier to work with than me, but she’s no moron. Neither are the police. If I’m dead, so is any deal you have for my restaurant.”

  “That’s why I’m not going to shoot you, Mr. Lucci,” Mitch responded, sounding almost bored now. “You’re going to have an accident, and no one will know about me even being here. Then, after a little bit of grieving, your daughter should be pretty open to our offer.”

  “An accident?” Alphonse sounded less sure of himself again.

  “That’s the plan. I had dinner here the other night and I studied the layout pretty well. I saw that high balcony you got out there in the main room.” He threw his head toward the double doors leading to the restaurant. Moving the nine in that general direction, he motioned for the little man to walk to the other room. “Come on, I’ll show you how it works.”

  Alphonse frowned again but started moving toward the doors. When they got into the dining room, he stopped and looked back at Mitch. The room was slightly better lit than the kitchen, the first floor being about the size of a typical 7-Eleven. A couple dozen tables were arranged throughout. None had tablecloths; their ancient, hard oak tops were exposed.

  “There it is,” Mitch said as he pointed to the stairs leading to an open second-floor balcony, about fourteen feet higher than the ground floor. The balcony ceiling was another ten feet over that.

  “There what is?” Alphonse asked, studying the second floor.

  “Your diving board.” He looked back down at the Cheese Man. “You must have a ladder around here somewhere. Am I right?”

  Alphonse’s mouth was wide open now, and he again stared at Mitch. He nodded once. “So?”

  “So, you’re going to get the ladder out and climb up there to change a light bulb in that chandelier. Only, an old guy like you, you’ll probably lose your sense of balance and fall all the way down here.” He nodded to the floor. “Accidents like that happen all the time to headstrong old farts like you.” Mitch was smiling when he finished.

  The little man took a couple of steps toward the middle of the room and looked up at the ornate chandelier hanging partially over the balcony and partially over the main floor. He quickly figured that, if he was on top of a ladder in the balcony and fell, he’d come down a good twenty feet or more. Far enough that he’d never get up and walk away from the spot. He glanced back at Mitch, a quizzical grin spreading across his face.

  “You really think I’m going to march up there, up a ladder like that, and just jump?”

  “That’s about exactly what I think.”

  “Why the hell would I do that?” He took a step back toward Mitch.

  “Because, if you don’t, I will shoot you.”

  “Then fire away, Bosco.” Al nodded. “I’d rather go out like that and screw up your plans. That’s a no-brainer.”

  Mitch shrugged, the smile remaining on his face. “It would seem so at first glance, and the end result is the same as far as you’re concerned. You’re totally dead either way.” He paused for a moment. “But it’ll be a whole lot easier on that wife of yours if you fall off the ladder.”

  “Maria?”

  “Whatever the old bag’s name is. See, if I have to shoot you, I’m going to do the same to her, too. You both die. But if you take the fall, she lives. The choice is yours, really, but I bet if we polled your family on the matter they’d probably say you should climb up the ladder.”

  THIRTY-THREE

  Freddy the D. was running a few minutes later than he’d hoped that Saturday morning, but there was enough slack time in his plan that he wasn’t much worried. Kostas wasn’t expecting him until noon, and he’d still beat that by a bit. He left his house at eleven-fifteen, which got him just down the street from Kostas’s scrap yard at a quarter to twelve. He’d meant to be there by eleven-thirty, but he still had time. The D. eased his new Infiniti to the curb, just around the corner from Ted’s place, and carefully locked his door. He buttoned his overcoat and put on his sunglasses, although, given that it was warm and cloudy, he really didn’t need either of them. Still, the D. hardly wanted to be easily recognizable.

  Walking up the alley to Ted’s back door, the D. flashed on the two people he hated most in the whole world: Alphonse Lucci and Niles Macmillan. In no particular order. Lucci for being stubborn and Niles for being such a pus
hy little pecker. The D. was glad he was rid of both of them, although, as long as he’d been in the killing business recently, he wondered if he shouldn’t have just wasted old man Lucci weeks ago. Made short work of everything. Made it a go for the development of the West Side block. Screw it, he reasoned as he got near Ted’s office. That project could still flop even if they did buy Lucci’s place. Not to mention, who wants to have Niles Macmillan around twenty-four hours a day? Certainly not Freddy Disanto. Let Mitch Bosco worry about that mother, if indeed Mitch was in with the Arizona boys now. As for the Cheese Man, the D. might just make it a point to give him a headache or two sometime down the road. Just on principle, for all the grief that the old man had caused him lately.

  The D. shook his head in mild disgust as he reached for Ted’s back-door handle. He’d think more about Alphonse Lucci later. Now it was show time, and the D. wanted to move as quickly as possible. As he twisted the handle, he smacked the door with the flat of his left hand to let the man inside know he was there.

  Ted Kostas had barely slept the night before. He’d jumped up about every half-hour to check the vintage brown suitcase sitting at the foot of his bed. Then he’d contemplated the score he was about to make that Saturday, smoking a cigarette to calm himself down before heading back to bed. When the long night finally ended, he was starving. He went to his scrap yard shortly before ten o’clock, bringing along the suitcase and his handsome wood-handled Smith & Wesson .38 Special. He stopped on the way in and picked up four Egg McMuffins, four orders of hash browns, and three coffees to get him going. Sitting at his desk, the suitcase touching his leg and the .38 resting next to the food on his desk, Ted felt pretty good after a while. He didn’t smell so good, given that he hadn’t showered that morning. Or the morning before, either, come to think of it. But there would be plenty of time for personal hygiene when he was done moving the Jags.